


Eat, Drink and be Merry...

by LBibliophile



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bingo Fill, Domestic Avengers, Fluff and Angst, Food Issues, Food Porn, Gen, Sort Of, Star Spangled Bingo, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Team as Family, Thanksgiving, Tony Stark Bingo 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:22:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21589921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LBibliophile/pseuds/LBibliophile
Summary: It’s Thanksgiving with the Avengers, and Steve doesn’t think he’s everseenso much food. With good food and good company, everything is going great… until it isn’t.For:Star Spangled Bingo - Holiday ficTony Stark Flash Bingo - November 001: Steve Rogers
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Avengers Team
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58
Collections: Star Spangled Bingo 2019, Tony Stark Flash Bingo





	1. Eat, drink and be merry...

**Author's Note:**

> AN: I am Australian, and don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, so everything I know about it comes from pop culture osmosis. Basically, that it involves family (and/or friends?) getting together to catch up and eat too much food, including turkey and pie (pumpkin, apple, I don’t know?). If anything seems odd in this fic, just chalk it up to the Avengers’ diverse backgrounds.
> 
> The first half of the fic is mostly Avengers family fluff. If you want to avoid the actual discussion about Steve's food issues (angsty but not graphic), skip the second chapter.

“Steve, welcome. So glad you could come.”

Steve has barely stepped out of the lift to the Avengers Tower common floor before he is being accosted by a certain frighteningly efficient redheaded CEO.

“Pepper. Nice to see you too.”

“Now you brought a…? Excellent. Sweet or savoury; hot or cold?” He blinks as the tea towel-wrapped ceramic dish is whisked out of his hands.

“Ah, savoury, hot. Or at least, it should be. It came out of the oven about half an hour ago.”

“I’ll go pop it back in for a bit then.”

The next thing he knows, his hands are empty, and he is blinking at her retreating back as she disappears into the kitchen area.

“Best just leave her to it.” He turns to smile at Tony as the man wanders over. “She and Hill have completely taken over the kitchen. They have some sort of system for organising the food, and I for one am not about to get in their way.”

Steve just nods. That sounds for the best; apparently Tony has found a sense of self-preservation for once.

“Again, thanks for inviting me to the party. I hadn’t gotten caught up on the date yet properly last year, but I wasn’t really looking forward to the quiet this year.”

“The more the merrier, and it’s not like you don’t live two floors down half the time. Just because Thanksgiving is traditionally for family, no reason I can’t celebrate with friends instead. Besides, you know me, any reason for a good party.” No mention of course, that most of the Avengers are rather short on family to spend the holiday with, for one reason or another. “But enough of that. You want a drink?”

“Just a juice for me.”

“Pft, just because you can’t feel the effects of the alcohol doesn’t mean you have to be boring. In that case you can get it yourself. Call me when you’re willing to try something more interesting.”

He chuckles at the man’s affronted retreat. He’ll probably end up having a beer later – he still drinks those sometimes for the taste – but it’s amusing riling up his fellow Avenger. For now, he follows Tony’s gesture to where jugs and glasses are laid out near the bar, grabbing a handful of nuts from a bowl on his way past.

* * *

Steve is chatting with Clint and Rhodes, picking at a platter of dried fruit, when he hears Hill yell from the direction of the kitchen.

“Oi, Avengers. Assemble!”

And suddenly there is a stampede, everyone rushing to get to the front of the queue forming in the doorway. Steve allows himself to get swept along, but stops staring in wonder, when he gets close enough to see inside.

He doesn’t think he’s ever _seen_ so much food before. Pies, and salads, and bread, and casseroles, and of course the turkey. When Tony had started talking about hosting an Avengers and Friends™ Thanksgiving party, he hadn’t imagined anything on quite this scale. Although, given it _is_ Tony, he really shouldn’t be so surprised.

Someone pokes him in the back, and he quickly steps forward, grabbing a plate and following the queue as it winds alongside the island bench. He works his way along the crowded buffet, adding a scoop of this, a slice of that, a few pieces of something else. His plate quickly fills up, but he follows the example of Clint in front of him and just keeps piling it on.

It is almost inevitable when it happens.

“Fu-”

Clint is reaching across the bench, using his fork to snag a few extra slices of turkey. Half way back to his plate, one of the slices tears and slips, causing his arm to jerk as he tries to keep it from falling into a bowl of salad. His elbow flies out, bumping a basket filled with bread rolls. The rolls scatter, one making a determined b-line for the edge of the bench and the floor. Clint’s muscles twitch with the instinctive reaction to grab, despite the loaded fork in one hand, and over-filled plate in the other.

Forestalling further disaster, Steve quickly reaches out, catching the roll just as it bounces off the edge.

Deliberately placing the turkey on his plate, Clint turns to grin at him.

“Good catch. I guess those supersoldier reflexes are good for something.”

He chuckles, then looks down at the roll in his hand and sets it next to the other already on his plate. He might as well just take it. He’s already grabbed it – and squashed it sightly, he sees – and there’s plenty more left for the others.

* * *

Steve has to smother a groan as the first bite of meatloaf hits his tongue. It is hot and rich, meltingly soft, the faint hint of spices mingling with the sharp sweetness of chutney.

It tastes like home.

This is the recipe his Ma always used for special occasions, Thanksgiving in particular. He hasn’t cooked it since she died, but it turned out perfectly, just as he remembers, the familiar taste and smell drawing forth vivid memories.

_Working in the kitchen with his Ma, helping to crumble breadcrumbs or shape the final loaf._

_Mouth watering impatiently as the fragrant scent of the dish baking on the stove fills their small apartment._

_Sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner with his Ma and sometimes Bucky (not on Thanksgiving itself, his Ma always took those shifts at the hospital, but their own private celebration)._

He comes back to himself with the realisation that the meatloaf is gone, the slice eaten while he was lost in the memories it inspired. A sudden wave of longing hits him. He has mostly acclimated to the future; enjoys the friendships and purpose he has built. But everything is so different, the little things most of all. To find something that is familiar, missing that faint sense of _wrong_ …

He looks back over at the buffet table through the doorway. There is still almost a quarter of the meatloaf left, and he swears he can pick out the tantalising scent. He vacillates for a moment, then stands, jaw tightening in determination. He brought it, he made it, and he is going to have that second slice _._

* * *

Steve looks up as a flash of red stops beside him, and smiles.

“Nat, hey, how’s it going.”

“I have made baby quiches. You should try them.”

He looks down at the plate she is holding. It is piled with small round pastry cases with some sort of firm (egg-based?) filling. Half the ‘quiches’ are bright green with red flecks, the other half are an un-natural colour that his artist brain can only call magenta.

“Quiches?” She nods.

“These ones are spinach and sun-dried tomato,” pointing at the green filling, “and these are beetroot and goats cheese. Try them.”

“No, I’m good, th-” he pauses. Natasha doesn’t cook often. Despite her skill at just about everything else, the kitchen is an unfamiliar battleground, and she takes every failure to heart. For her to be willing to risk sharing her baking… He takes another look at the plate. Once you get past the alarming colour, the quiches actually look pretty good. The pastry is uneven, but crisped to a nice golden; the filling is firm and just slightly pulling away from the casing at the edges. It will be far from the worst thing he’s eaten, and unlikely to actually poison him.

He hovers a hand over the green quiches.

“Spinach, you said?” She nods and he takes one, only for her to turn the plate so the purple ones are facing him. With a mental shrug, he takes the hint and grabs one of those too. “I’ll let you know how they go.”

She smiles, eyes already roving, scoping out her next victim – ahem, taste-tester.

As she stalks away, he takes a bite of the purple quiche. Hmm, odd, but not too bad. He’ll have to see if there’s leftovers floating around later. Such attempts should be encouraged.

* * *

Steve picks at the last few shreds of lettuce on his plate and ponders whether he should see if there’s any more roast potatoes left. He wouldn’t normally, but he’s sure he’s seen Clint go back for ‘seconds’ at least three times by now. Besides no-one’s going to miss a few more, given the veritable mountain of potatoes he and Clint had scrubbed that morning.

But when he gets to the kitchen, it’s been transformed. Empty dishes are piled in the dishwasher or by the sink, plates and bowls with half-demolished remains clustering on any out of the way surface. Because covering the main bench… cakes and biscuits and pudding and fruit and custard and chocolates and…

He jumps as Hill whisks his dirty plate out of his hand.

“Excellent timing, Captain, desert is just ready. I’ll deal with this, you go get the ice-cream out of the freezer. When you’ve done that, bowls and cutlery are over there; help yourself.”

Gathering himself, Steve nods and makes his way to the double freezer. Cataloguing the dessert spread on his way past, he is suddenly glad that he was interrupted from getting his potatoes. This is a lot of dishes to try.

* * *

Steve is distracted from his conversation about art with Pepper by the chime of the elevator door opening. He looks over and grins at the man entering the room.

“Sam, you made it! We’ve just started desert, but there’s plenty of leftovers if you want them.”

“Nah, man, I’m good. Sorry I’m late, I had trouble getting away from the family thing. But in recompense, I brought pie! Who wants a piece? Steve?”

He looks at the pie Sam is holding – large, but still only one – then at everyone else in the room, then down at his mostly full bowl.

“Thanks for the offer, but -”

“C’mon man. This is my mum’s famous _apple pie_. You of all people can’t say no to that. It’s un-American!”

The pie does look good, and he doesn’t want to offend Sam or Ma Wilson, so…

“Alright, just a small slice then.” The slice isn’t small, but it is delicious.

* * *

He’s pretty sure he lost track of whatever science thing Tony is rattling on about a good two minutes ago, but that’s ok. He can still pick up the occasional phrase, and Tony’s happy talking, and he’s happy listening, and Tony will let him know if and when he wants actual input. For now, he’s just enjoying the company and relaxed atmosphere.

Then Tony stops mid-sentence, looking down at the piece of cake on his plate in betrayal, a forkful missing from its corner.

“Who the hell puts coconut in carrot cake?”

“Umm...” He can’t remember who brought that one, and with the glare Tony is giving his dessert, he’s not sure he’d admit it if he did.

“Well, that’s just not fair. Hey, Steve, do you want it?”

He shrugs. He hasn’t tried his own slice yet, but…

“Sure?”

“Great, knock yourself out. Just not literally. Anyway –”

The cake is efficiently transferred from Tony’s plate to his own, and Tony is off again. And he’s never heard of coconut in carrot cake before either, but he has to admit that it adds a nice touch.

* * *

Steve reaches over, and grabs the next dish precariously balanced on the kitchen bench.

“Hey, Rhodes, what do you want me to do with the last of the pasta?”

Rhodes glances up from where he is dumping leftover roast vegetables into a plastic container.

“How much is left?”

Steve obligingly tilts the serving bowl, showing the last scoop or so of pasta salad clinging to the bottom.

“Hmm, nah, just bin it.”

Steve frowns. He hadn’t thought it had been out long enough to cause problems, so why not put it away with the other leftovers?

“What’s wrong with it?” Rhodes looks back at him in surprise.

“Nothing, really. Just that there’s not enough left to be worth saving. We’ve got plenty of leftovers already to last at least a day or two, even with you pack of locusts.”

He turns towards the bin, but then stops and picks up a fork instead. He just can’t throw out perfectly good food, even after today’s bounty.

“I’ll just finish it off now, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel sort of bad for having two of the only three women present as the ones running the kitchen, but that’s how the dynamics worked best. And everyone helps out.
> 
> Also, Natasha might have accidentally turned into Nebula...


	2. ... for tomorrow we die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for the angst.  
> tw: discussion of Steve's food issues aka. chronic hunger

Something isn’t right. He feels… _off_ somehow. He’d almost say he’s coming down with something, but he hasn’t gotten sick since before the serum. He can’t _get_ sick anymore. At least, not naturally…

A sudden suspicion, and his eyes seek the rest of his team, assessing. At first glance, everything is fine. Most of the team is sprawled out across the living room, chatting, or playing video games. But the energy is wrong. Or rather, there isn’t any. Avengers gatherings are usually boisterous affairs, but the scene before him is muted. Voices are quieter and conversations lazy, the gamers are missing their usually competitive edge, and it even looks as though Natasha is _napping_.

Worry mounting, he looks for Bruce, following as the man carries a load of dirty glasses into the kitchen.

“Bruce? I need to talk to you for a moment. I don’t want to worry the others yet, but I think we might have been drugged or poisoned or something.”

Bruce straightens, his eyes going sharp.

“What makes you think that?”

“Look at everyone. They’re only this quiet after an extended battle; it’s not like we’ve done anything today to make them that tired. And I can feel it too.”

“Ok, first things first, how _do_ you feel?”

Steve thinks, trying to put it into words.

“I don’t feel weak or tired, but sort of heavy and lethargic. Bloated. If I move around too much, I start to feel a bit nauseous.” His hand moves to his stomach. “And there must be some sort of numbing agent, because the ache is gone.”

Bruce is silent for a long minute, and Steve feels his tension growing. It is almost a shock when he finally speaks.

“I think I know what is going on, and it’s not drugs. It’s not bad.” He wants to feel relief, but there is a strange look in Bruce’s eyes that keeps him from relaxing. “The others are just suffering from food comas. They ate too much, so now their bodies are focussing on digesting it. That’s all. It’s a hibernation of sorts. You’re the same, what you are feeling… you’re feeling _full_. As in, not hungry.

“Steve, how much do you eat, normally?”

Bruce’s tone is even, but he can’t help reacting as through it was an accusation.

“My share, of course, same as you guys. Sometimes I’ll grab a protein bar after a workout or if I can’t sleep at night.” He flushes, and looks away for a moment. “Sorry, I took one of your bags of trail mix the other night, I’d run out and don’t know anywhere open at 2am. I’ll replace it as soon as I get the chance.”

“No, no, that’s fine. In fact, if you’re hungry, please do take them. Because Steve, the notes all say that the serum boosted your metabolism to four times normal. That means you need to _eat_ four times as much. If you’re only eating enough for an unenhanced human, even with the appetites around here, it’s no wonder you’re always hungry. But how didn’t you realise?”

“It was just…normal, I guess.”

“Normal.”

“Well, think about it. Growing up – first with Ma, then with Bucky – it was the Depression, you know. We were never as badly off as some families, but there were weeks when it was a struggle to make it to the next pay; and whole months where it was pretty much just beans, beans, and more beans. For that matter, I’m not sure how much my body was absorbing of what I did eat.

“There was the weeks in boot camp, which was ok as far as army food goes, and then of course the serum. The first few weeks after that were a time and a half. My body might have been transformed into the peak of human perfection, but it took a while to work out just what that meant, and even longer for my brain to even start to catch up. And of course there were all the tests. Blood tests with the associated fasting, fitness tests, health tests, endurance tests, tests for just about anything and everything they could come up with.

“With the USO, I was either eating with the girls between shows, or being shown off at fancy dinners. Then I finally got to the front and it was back on army rations. Sure I was hungry, but so was everyone else. It wouldn’t have been right to ask for more than my share.

“Waking up in the 21st century, I don’t think you realise just how different _everything_ was. Not just the obvious stuff, but the little everyday things, too. The range of products at supermarkets. The recipes on takeout menus. The flavours; even bananas are different. It was… hard. After a day of trying to catch up, the last thing I wanted to deal with was finding and tasting new food as well. So, sometimes, I just didn’t bother trying. It was fine; a little hunger wasn’t anything I couldn’t deal with.

“And I guess it, sort of… became habit. I eat with everyone else – and you know _that’s_ a case of every man for himself – or I’ll throw together a sandwich or something. Until now, I just... never really thought about it.”

Bruce sighs, and Steve carefully looks to one side so he doesn’t have to see any pity in his eyes.

“Steve… Your eating habits… Look. It’s not necessary, and it’s not sustainable, but we can work on that. Forget about it for the rest of today, then tomorrow, or whenever you’re ready, come find me and we’ll have a chat about ways we can boost your caloric intake. There’s things like protein powders that can help – and I know you hate Tony’s smoothies, but you can put it in milkshakes too. Step one, of course, is avoiding anything that calls itself low-fat or a diet opti- But we can discuss all that later. For now, just eat what you need when you need to, and try not to feel guilty about it. There’s plenty of food to go around.”


End file.
